Just Another One of Those Days
by Ross7
Summary: S**t happens.


** "Just Another One of Those Days" or "How **_**Not**_** To Put Out USOs"**

By Ross7

Six uniformed men had just sat down at a rather large, oak dinner table, to peacefully partake of some much-needed sustenance.

The group froze, right in mid chew, as claxons suddenly shattered the silence.

**"Station 51…"** a wall-speaker squawked, from the brick building's adjoining apparatus bay.

Captain Hank Stanley exchanged 'Isn't this typical?' glances with his fellow firefighters.

Silverware was tossed onto untouched plates.

The men slid their chairs back from the table and then stood—in unison.

* * *

Stanley crossed over to the call station and snatched up a mic' and a pen.

The rest of the guys followed their leader into the garage and then went trotting up to their respective trucks.

**"…With Brush Company 12…Grassfire…4292 West Carpenter Avenue…Four-two-nine-two West Carpenter…Cross-streets Quincy and Sheridan…Time out: 18:22."**

"Station 51—KMG-365," the Captain acknowledged. He passed a copy of the call address on to his paramedic team, and then piled into the enormous red engine parked beside their relatively small rescue squad.

Both vehicles exited the fire station and went wailing off down the street—emergency lights flashing.

**

* * *

**The disrupted diners could smell the fire, literally, a mile away.

They could spot the incident scene, while still a block away.

The street, sidewalk and driveway in front of 4292 West Carpenter Avenue were teeming with panicked people, and just plain nosey neighbors.

"Plea-ease? Everybody get back and give us some room to work!" the Captain pleaded over the pumper's PA system.

His Engineer cut the sirens and braked their big rig to a halt.

His paramedics exited their vehicle and began hauling hose over to the nearest hydrant hook-up.

Whether it was his earnest plea, or the enormity of their engine, that did it, Hank couldn't tell.

In any case, the desired results were achieved, as the milling crowd obediently moved back—and out of their way.

"Kelly! Lopez! Grab some inch and a half's!" Stanley shouted over his shoulder. He pulled an HT from the pocket of his turnout coat and began working his way over to the home's rather spacious, and still-burning, backyard.

**

* * *

**Upon his arrival, the Captain encountered a panting, soot and sweat-covered couple.

A highly agitated guy was holding a limp garden hose, and an extremely distraught lady was leaning on the handle of a leaf rake.

Hank sized-up the situation for a few somber moments, before raising his radio to his lips and thumbing its call button. "LA, Engine 51 and Squad 51 are on scene. Fire is small enough for us to contain. Return brush assignment. Station 51 out twenty minutes…"

**"10-4, Station 51,"** his handy-talky crackled back.

Stanley replaced his radio and then assisted his men in 'containing' the grassfire.

**

* * *

**Within five minutes, Station 51's paramedics had both civilians on the scene assessed and declared medically sound.

Within those same five minutes, Station 51's engine crew had the fire's visible flames extinguished.

The men then set about overhauling all of its remaining 'hot' spots.

Stanley stood there, perusing the still-smoldering, two-acre parcel of charred property. "What happened here?" he finally pondered of the no longer panting pair of homeowners.

"We were installing a privacy fence," the woman obligingly replied. "'Til Robert got the brainy idea to take a break," she paused to shoot her husband an irritated glare.

"It was hot," Robert stated in his defense. "I was tired…and hungry."

'I can relate to that,' the fatigued Fire Captain told himself, over the grumbling of his empty tummy.

"So I decided to barbecue us up a couple a' nice…thick…juicy steaks."

Stanley's stomach rumbled a few more times.

"Well," the man went on, "I lit the grill and went back in to grab a cold one. I was sitting inside, by the air-conditioner, sipping my beer, waiting for the coals to get glowing, when Patty comes running in, screaming something about the backyard being on fire."

"I was still working on the new fence and Duncan, our Doberman, was playing with his ball," Patty volunteered. "Duncan must have bumped into the grill and knocked it over. Because I heard a sound and when I turned around, the grill was on the ground and there was grass burning—everywhere! I tried to stomp it out. But, there was a pretty stiff breeze and the flames were spreading a lot faster than I could stomp. That's when I went in to call the fire department."

"By the time I got out here," Robert continued, "the fire had already crossed the lawn and gotten into the tall, dead grass—the stuff that we don't mow. I grabbed the garden hose and started spraying, but the flames must've melted the vinyl…"

"After Robert lost the hose, I grabbed a rake and tried to stop it from spreading, but the heat was just too intense," Patty glumly confessed. "He ran out of water…and I ran out of steam."

Realizing that there wasn't a tall blade of grass left—anywhere on their property—Robert became a bit glum, himself. "Speaking of Duncan…The poor pooch won't know where to _go_ now."

Noting the mystified looks on the firemen's faces, Patty felt compelled to explain her husband's cryptic comment. "Robert got tired of picking puppy poo up off the lawn. So he trained our dog to go in a certain area."

"Duncan will only 'take a dump' in tall grass," the dog's proud trainer put it, more succinct—but less tactful—ly.

The woman cringed at her mate's crassness.

Stanley exchanged smiles with his paramedics and then turned his full attention back to his engine crew.

His men had the entire scene soaked down and completely overhauled.

Well, not completely. A few tiny wisps of smoke could still be seen, rising up from some oblong-shaped lumps, just beyond the border of the lawn.

Chet Kelly moved from one little wisp of smoke to another, stomping each unidentified smoldering object out, beneath the soles of his boots.

His Captain's slight smile returned and broadened into a grin. "I'd…uh…do that with a shovel, if I were you, pal!"

Paramedic John Gage turned to his companion and dryly remarked, "I never really thought of dog crap as being so…combustible."

"I never really thought of dog crap…period," his paramedic partner, Roy DeSoto, quickly, and quietly, came back.

Kelly caught all three of their comments. The Irishman's eyes suddenly widened and his bushy brows shot up. "Ah, sh—ee-eesh!" he shouted. Then he stepped back and held each of his feet up, so that his associate could spray any soggy doggy do-do away.

The _situation_ reminded Captain Stanley of why he kept a certain little sign taped to the inside of his locker. The placard helped Hank keep things in proper perspective.

It simply read: 'Some days you step in it. Some days you don't.'

It was just another one of _those_ days.

The End

Author's note: USO stands for: Unidentified Smoldering Object.

Additional note: I got the idea for this story while fighting a grassfire. I was stomping out some USOs, when I suddenly realized—much to my dismay—what the darn things actually were. :P lol


End file.
